Soul Source: Back and There Again

by Charles Vella

  *

  The ball seemed to speed up, forcing Griff to walk faster and faster to keep up until he was running, then sprinting. Out of the launch room down the hall. Through a door. A door? There wasn't a door there. One second he was running toward a blank wall the next he was in a hallway then running through another door that opened in front of him. Even stranger, this door opened to an escalator. He ran up the moving steps and was outside. Behind the building.

  "If this is a joke Dutch," he muttered as he followed the ball along the smoked glass wall of the atrium. "I'll kill..."

  He almost fell into it. A rectangle in the ground, identical to the one he'd come out of, opened up right in front of him. He teetered to a stop at its edge, looked in, got around to the top of the escalator and ran down as the ball bounced down an escalator on his screen. The door at the bottom of the escalator opened as he lost his balance and tripped toward it. The door slid open.

  "GRIFF."

  Monica's voice rang out as he grabbed the pipe, pipe? sticking out into the doorway to try to catch himself. But that was no pipe. No time to react. He grabbed it, realized someone was holding the other end the same time as it exploded in his hand.

  "DAMN." The heat seared his skin as the barrel of the rifle travelled in an arc driven by Griff's momentum. He let go and tried to stop, duck, do something, but he was moving too fast for any control. The person shooting had been moving into the doorway as Griff'd flown through it and the two of them went sprawling onto the floor as the rifle blasted a shower of bullets into a door across the hall, tearing it to pieces.

  Knock knock

  What window through yon light breaks?

  The killer squeezed the trigger. She wasn't five feet away. Practically standing next to him. Impossible to miss with his eyes closed. She should've been torn into hundreds of bloody fragments like those two cowards. Like that guy in the elevator. He should've been looking into her helpless eyes as she died.

  But in the split second between tightening his finger on the trigger and the explosion of power from the end of the weapon, in the split second that he saw in her eyes that she knew she was going to die, in the split second that he savored the moment with a small, satisfied smile, he looked, felt movement to his right. Something, no someone, came flying through an open door. A hand clutched his weapon and slammed into him. Sent him reeling. The killer'd caught the silent movement of the door swishing open out of the corner of his eye, but before he'd had time to wonder what it was someone was through it and on him, grabbing the barrel of his weapon. The killer's brain seemed detached, as if he were watching his finger tighten on the trigger from a distance, watching helplessly as the weapon jerked in his hands just as he squeezed. Instead of shredding the bitch into pieces she dove for the floor as the barrel traced an arc over her head and the burst of shots ripped a hole through the door to his left.

  The momentum slammed the killer and the guy who'd flown through the door at him into the wall and sent them rolling onto the floor in a heap, flailing at each other. The guy took a swing from his knees but couldn't really get room as the killer rolled into the momentum and jumped to his feet, his back braced against the wall. His weapon lay at the other end of the, where were they? It wasn't a hallway. Four doors. One with a hole blown in it. The other three closed. Three people in the tiny area. The killer looking at his weapon, the bitch reaching for it, the guy who'd knocked him down jumping to his feet. They all froze when what was left of the door that'd been blasted into splinters slid open.

  "What's all the commotion?"

  The guy who'd run into him, who'd ruined it, yelled, "Dutch. Stop him,"

  The other guy, the one who'd stuck his head out of the door turned to the killer with a weird smile.

  "In here," he said.

  The killer looked at him. Looked at the bitch, picking up the gun. Looked at the other guy, jumping to his feet and reaching for him. He shook off the guy's hand and raced through the open door.

  Someone, it raced through the killer's mind that he was vaguely familiar, had been in the way of the rounds ripping through the door and lay in a bloody heap. But the killer hadn't seen it. It didn't count if you didn't see it happen. Not much else in the room besides the dead guy. Big screens like giant TV's on a wall. Big window on the wall opposite the door. People moving around on the other side of the window. Whatever they were doing they didn't seem to've heard the shots. Could he get through the window to them? And do what? He didn't have a weapon.

  The killer stopped, raised his head toward the ceiling and howled. He started to turn and felt a shove. He staggered back and slammed against the window. He bounced off, tripped onto the ledge of a little platform, staggered, got a foot under him on the platform and braced to leap for the guy who'd shoved him. The one who'd called him into the room. The killer braced himself, gauging his distance to the weird smile and pointing finger. He lunged.

  What the hell is this? Where is he? Like when he was following the van in the cop car. He'd lunged into empty air where the weird guy should've been. The room was gone and he was outside. Outside? How'd he gotten outside? Where was that strange dude, smiling and pointing? Not here, wherever here is. The killer was all alone in the woods. He tripped past where the pointing finger should've been, caught his balance. Kept moving. He pumped his legs. Wherever this was he was at least outside of that nut house and opening up the distance at every step. The killer pounded his way through the trees. He could see them thinning out ahead into an open area. A road. A road meant cars. Was anyone looking for him? Not the cops. The only one who'd seen him at the hotel was that strange bitch asked him what time it was. The one who should've been blown away. No. The road was good. He'd hitch a ride and get as far from that place as he could.

  The killer flew out of the trees and looked left as his foot slapped the blacktop. Nothing. His head snapped right at the sound of squealing tires. The face stared at him through the windshield in wide-eyed shock. "You," the killer said, but no one heard him. The boy and he stared at each other through the window as time seemed to freeze. The van'd spun completely around by the time it came to a stop, but the killer didn't see that.

  "GO. MOVE," the brother shouted over the boy's shoulder. The other brother cursed in the back. The killer's eyes'd popped open and he stared through the windshield at the crumpled form on the road in front of them.

  "Did you see him?" the boy asked in wonder, his jaw still hanging slack.

  "I saw him now go." But he couldn't have. Not who he was. The boy couldn't've seen him either. It wasn't possible.

  Confession (if that's the word) is good for the soul

  "This is awkward."

  "I know what you did Dutch. I just don't understand why you did it. Not all of it anyway." Monica dropped into a chair. The same chair she'd fallen into when she'd first come back. What a mess. Pruitt in a bloody heap in the launch room. Sarah gone. Sarah. Tears welled up in her eyes.

  "Didn't Dr. Ted explain."

  "He did. It just didn't make any sense."

  "I see. Well, Dr. Ted made me in his image Monica. At least he tried to. I think he found it to be more complicated than he realized."

  "But you killed people Dutch. Verma, Veronica..."

  "I didn't actually..."

  "You caused the diversion. The prisoner," she went on. "Pruitt. The list just goes on and on. Ted's the sweetest man in the history of the world. How could you be created in his image and do all that?"

  "That's a very interesting question. You see at first Dr. Ted included Asimov's laws of robotics in my programming, but he didn't think it was fair for me to subordinate myself to humans just because I'm, well, frankly Monica I'm not fully human, but I am partially human. Dr. Ted wanted me to have free will, so he set up a hierarchy of people I need to obey and programmed a random number generator into my decision making to try to simulate the irrationality of a human being. I don't think he fully understood the implications of that on
ce my machine learning began to evolve. You see, I originally just used the random number generator to resolve ambiguity in instructions, but it seems that I now use it with the laws themselves."

  Monica shook her head. Great. Thanks for the explanation.

  "I'm not sure I'm making myself clear."

  You think?

  "Are you familiar with Asimov's laws?"

  "Vaguely."

  "A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm. A robot must obey orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law."

  "OK."

  "Well, for example, it appears that my random number generator has evolved to being used to decide whether I obey the first law at all."

  "Right. You told me. You flip a coin to see whether you can kill someone." Ted's contribution to the human race.

  "Yes. Except it's as if I can flip the coin an infinite number of times."

  "So," she said slowly. "You just keep thinking about whether you can kill someone until you decide you can."

  "Exactly." Dutch beamed. "You're so intelligent Monica. And beautiful. Have I told you that?"

  "But why Sarah?"

  "Sarah?"

  She shot him an accusing look. "Why'd you kill her? Why didn't you stop random number generating before you decided Pruitt could order you to do that? Sarah was your friend." Death by random number generator. Agatha Christie meets Ray Bradbury. That's one she'd leave on the digital shelf.

  Dutch frowned. "I'm not sure I understand."

  "You said...what's that?"

  They both turned to the pounding coming from the bathroom door. Monica stared at the red light for a second then leapt to her feet.

  "Dutch. Someone's in there."

  A muffled, "let me out of here," came through the door as it slid open and Sarah reeled into the room. She stopped, wiped the hair out of her face, looked at Monica then turned and glared at Dutch.

  "I'm going to kill you Dutch." She started across the room but Monica reached her when she was halfway across.

  "What're you doing?"

  Monica clutched at her.

  "Oh Sarah. Sarah. Is it really you?"

  "Of course it's really me. Who does it look like?" She looked around the room over Monica's shoulder, her eyes settling on Dutch. "What's going on Dutch. What am I doing here? Who drugged me?"

  "Drugged you?" Monica turned to Dutch without letting Sarah go. "What's going on. You said you killed her."

  "Killed me?"

  "Oh no Monica. I never said that."

  "But you...Pruitt..."

  "Pruitt's instructions were quite explicit. He told me to send Sarah somewhere and make sure she didn't return. Well," he looked around. "She hasn't returned. This is where I sent her." His face broke into a smile. "And there's no way I can explain it to him now," he said gleefully and winked at them.

  "You're nuts Dutch," Sarah said. Her expression darkened as her face turned to Monica. "Justin," she said slowly. Monica shook her head.

  "I'm sorry Sarah."

  Sarah sagged and Monica led her to a chair. She collapsed into it with her face in her hands. They were there when Griff walked in. He looked at the three of them. His eyes settled on Sarah.

  "Where'd she come from?"

  "It's a long story." Monica helped Sarah up. "Come on," she sighed. "Let's go clean up." She looked over at Griff. "Sorry for what I said."

  "What you said?" Maybe he'd forgotten about it in all the excitement, but the reminder creased his forehead. Well that's life. She was too exhausted to care at this point. She led Sarah to the bathroom. She stopped at the door as Sarah went inside. Griff gave them a distracted wave and disappeared through the door.

  "Dutch," Monica said, staring at his hand. "Is that..."

  Dutch followed her eyes. "The tape? Yes. Yes it is."

  "What are you going to do with it?"

  "Dutch's eyes went deep blue. "What would you like me to do with it Monica?"

  "Don't be a creep Dutch." She thought for a second. "Give it to Agnes. I wonder what she'll do now?"

  "Agnes? I expect she'll want to leave. Monica?"

  "What Dutch?" Monica stopped, her arm around Sarah.

  Dutch's eyes went deep blue. "When I get back..."

  "DUTCH."

  "What's with him?" Sarah asked.

  "It's a long story. Are you alright?"

  "I suppose." Sarah rubbed her face in her hands. She ran her hands through her hair and smiled weakly. "At least I know now."

  "And you don't want to..."

  "No," Sarah said before she could finish. She stared off into the distance. "You were right," she sighed. "Playing God's a bad idea. It's hard enough being human." She gave Monica's shoulder a pat. "Don't worry about me," she sighed and wandered into the bathroom.

  "We're alone now Monica."

  "Dutch. This has got to stop."

  "But it can't stop Monica. You see, that's the nature of the override. Once it's executed it can't be undone unless..."

  "Unless what Dutch?"

  Dutch reddened. "I'd rather not talk about it." His eyes flashed deep blue. "Let's talk about us."

  Great. A happy ending. Griff still mad. Sarah's lost her father. A lifetime of Dutch mooning after her. There had to be a way... The thought stopped her cold. Could it be? She looked into the blue eyes staring rapturously at her. It had to.

  "Dutch," she said, shaking off his hand. "The override. You have to do anything I say?"

  "I'm your slave Monica. I'd cross the highest..."

  "Anything Dutch?"

  "Why yes. Why do you ask?"

  "Well I've got something for you to do."

  To err is so human

  "What do you want?" Agnes groaned.

  "I have something for you." Dutch held out the tape. Agnes looked at it. A little gray box. Almost like a coffin. Hers? Pruitt dead. The prisoner dead. No one on earth knew she'd opened that door except her and Sarah. The thought hit her like a slap in the face. How was she going to face Sarah? Ruth's daughter.

  "Monica wants you to have it." Dutch held it a little closer.

  What's the point? All those years she'd thought it was fear eating at her. Fear of discovery. But that was never it. Not really. It was the guilt. Guilt kept her away from relationships, away from any semblance of a normal life. Guilt she'd almost shed once and for all. But it hadn't worked. Whatever'd happened back there, well it'd happened that's all. And here she was.

  "Monica wants you to have it," Dutch repeated in a more admonishing tone. She opened her mouth to answer without having any idea what she was going to say when the door to her bathroom slid open.

  "Have you been in there all this time? Are you alright?"

  He didn't look alright. Rick staggered to a chair across the desk from Agnes and fell into it. He looked blankly from her to Dutch. Shook his head as if he were trying to wake up.

  "What happened?"

  "You're asking us?"

  "I was sittin here, there," he nodded toward Agnes. "That cop was here," he looked down at the chair he was sitting in. "Then..." his voice trailed off as Dutch stifled a laugh.

  "Dutch," Agnes said. "Do you know anything about this?"

  "Sorry." Dutch held his hand over his mouth to cover his smile. He tried to point his finger but realized he had the tape in his hand. "I can't explain."

  Agnes sighed.

  "What's that?" Rick said, his eyes coming alert and narrowing.

  Agnes looked at it. "That's the tape."

  "The tape?" Wide awake now. "The tape? You mean they got it?"

  "Monica wants you to have it Agnes."

  "And I want you to give it to Rick."

  Rick stared at it, his smile slowly pushing the confusion from his face like the sun
breaking through the clouds. He reached out his hand. Agnes watched it get closer to the tape with clinical detachment.

  "Damn." The hand stopped and Rick popped a screen onto his wrist. He looked down, frowned, then jumped up and walked across the room, muttering and glaring at his wrist.

  "I'm not sure Monica would approve."

  "Then give it to me." Agnes held out her hand. Dutch frowned, but gave her the tape. She stared at it in her hand. Felt its weight. Tried to feel something. Anything. But she was numb.

  "Well," Rick said as he walked back over. "That's that."

  "What do you mean, that's that?" Agnes held out the tape but he ignored it.

  "Sampson," he said in disgust. "She was sick. Sick. How the hell do you miss somethin like that?"

  "Sick?"

  "Went home early from that conference. Wasn't no records. They was goin through the data and realized she used her credit card on the turnpike a hundred miles from that conference when the shootin went down. Checked and found out she was in the hospital that night with a hunnerd an three temperature. She couldn't'a let'em in." He shook his head at the injustice of it.

  "Still," she held the tape out. "You'll know who did."

  "Know?" he snorted, already headed for the door. "All I know's I gotta go back to the drawin board on Sampson. Gotta be at the White House tonight. That's all I need to know." He looked around. "You seen Justin?"

  Agnes and Dutch exchanged glances and Agnes swore to herself that if he pointed that finger she'd find out whether it was human or mechanical by biting it off, but somehow for once he didn't. Just stared at her with a look on his face she didn't want to understand.

  "I'm afraid Justin didn't make it."

  "Didn't make it?" His expression darkened. "What're you talkin about? There weren't nothing dangerous," he said as if arguing the point. "What the hell'd he do? Walk in front of a car or somethin?"

  "I'm afraid we don't have any details..."

  "Well call the office when you do. I wantto know what the hell happened," he said over his shoulder as the door swished open. "We'll do'im a nice memorial." He disappeared waving a hand absently.